Rebel With Too Many Causes
by Lear's Fool
Summary: Valere Whitney has always hated being labeled a Soc, so she distances herself from just about everyone. But meeting new people on both sides might change her views. (violence and language)
1. The Town, the Talker, and the Trouble

Growing up on the streets of Tulsa has taught me one thing; there are _never_ only two categories of people.

Well, I shouldn't say that I grew up on the _streets_ of Tulsa, I'm from the west side, the richer side of town. To most kids at my high school, I'm known as a Soc-or-a social-at first glance. Of course no one, and I mean _no_ _one_, has ever called me that to my face and seen out of their right eye the next day. For a girl, I've got a pretty good arm when I get fiery enough to use it. I know, for a fifteen year old kid I seem a bit violent, but a lot of people who know me see me as a weakling. That's just because I never bother to try in gym class. My strength only appears when I'm angry, and being in a school of idiots, that happens pretty often.

I guess I should explain about my town's situation. Tulsa is divided in half; east and west side. The east is the poorer half, and its habitants have always been called greasers. My half, the west, is the richer half, and its inhabitants are called Socs, which I already mentioned earlier. The basic stereotype for the greasers is that they are like juvenile delinquents, hoodlums, who hold up stores and wear their hair long and greasy. The stereo of Socs is that we wear expensive clothing, get attention from the reps (that's my nickname for reporters and journalists), and drink beer for fun. Well, I admit that being a Soc I know a lot of people who add up to the assumption, but hey, not everyone's perfect right?

I walked down the street feeling a bit uncomfortable about so many heads turning towards me. I knew it wasn't because I was particularly gorgeous or anything, because I look pretty normal with my tanned skin and my natural ringlets of long dark hair falling over my shoulders. Along with my dark lashed, wide golden eyes and slightly hooked nose, that was all that made me stand out. It was my clothes that made their heads turn. Compared to the others in Tulsa, I'm no ordinary girl, and my wardrobe reflects that. I was wearing a loose, button down white shirt, which was normal, but I had cut the cuffs of the sleeves and used a scissors to slit them all the way up to my shoulders. It had been an accident, but I had liked the way it looked. So I repeated it with the other sleeve, and then added to the shirt's changes by removing the collar and turning it into a v-neck by folding two triangular sections over. I decided to amuse myself by designing a skirt to match. I asked Randy for one of his old pairs of jeans, and began to cut it in wide strips. When I was done, I sewed them all together to make a denim skirt. I had never been happy with the ordinary fashions, so I was always changing old clothes into something new. It was my own way of turning myself into a girl that couldn't be placed into either the Soc, or greaser category. Labels, in my opinion, were just an easy way out of getting to know someone. Sadly, the rest of Tulsa didn't see it that way.

I stopped starring at the sideway as I walked and began to glance around at the street. Hatred, I thought grimly. Plain, simple, damned hatred.

Everywhere around, I could see boys with long hair and cigarettes glaring at the kids in expensive cars, even at some of the empty cars. A few groups of so-called Socs were creeping up the alleys, their minds fixed on the greasers. There was even a fight going on behind me, and I was almost about to hurry over to stop it, until I saw the damn blades. Shoot, another sign of idiocy.

All it takes is and idea in your head to think that there actually is a separation line between two groups, and you believe that its there. Why was it so easy for people to be controlled by lies? Don't they get it? Every person you see when you cross the road has thoughts, opinions, and emotions. We all have a story to tell, but few of us get the courage to tell it, because they're afraid that stereotypical people (like every one in Tulsa) will shoot them down. Oh god, fear and assumptions just destroy brains, don't they? Why are we all so bli-

"Valere!" I spun around at the mention of my name. I forced out a tiny smile as I saw her coming. "Hey Laurel,"

Laurel dashed up to me, her bright teeth glittering in the setting sun. She was just a bit taller that me, with her dark blonde poofs of hair swung from side to side as her humongous blue eyes brightened noticeably. "How's my favorite rebel?" she asked cheerily. I'm not sure if I explained this or not, but some of the girls at school know me as a rebel because I'm always knocking some jerk's jaw sideways.

It was because of this that girls like Laurel had never scored very high on my list. She was paying attention too much to the latest gossip and news to worry about the stuff that really mattered. .

"Oh, I'm just fine, thanks."

"Good!" she went on. I nearly rolled my eyes at her. Why didn't she do us all a favor and loose the fake cheer?

"Listen," she went on. "I've been talking to Marco and he's just _thrilled _with you and your punch on Anna, he's always hated that girl and she's really been pestering him! Well, I heard from Joanie, whose going out with Lawrence, who is the brother of Marco's best friend that he would really like to spend time with you, to see if there could be a relationship in the air! Oh, he seems like a great guy, but I warn you, I found out from Tammy, who is the cousin of Claire, who is best friends with Gina, who is in Marco's homeroom that he just broke up with Allie, whose always seemed like such a great girl, maybe he just wanted to get on her nerves! Well, I asked Simone about this, who is related to Angela-"

God, doesn't she ever shut up? I tried my hardest to keep the sigh from exiting my mouth. Ugh, Marco was the last guy I was interested in, he smoked like a chimmeny and always was coughing up strange substances...no, Laurel just doesn't know enough. And somehow, that doesn't stop her from blabbering on and on and on...

I couldn't resist letting my eyes wander...the speech was getting on my last nerve...

I suddenly saw something that made my already big eyes widen. My heart seemed to stop beating, and just beging to throb terribly.

"Umm...I gotta go, Laurel, thanks for the information," I said quickly, making a mad dash past the overtalkative cheerleader.

I barely heard her startled voice call out as I sped down the sidewalk. "Valere!" she screamed. "Wait, Valere!"

Oh, Laurel could wait. This was ten times more important.

I finally stopped running when I came to a large bush next to the field, near a wide walkway in which someone owning a large, red corvair was parked. Oh, damn, I knew that car just fine. I quickly ducked behind the bush as the boys in the corvair began to get out.

There were five of them, in there, and they all had their drunk gazes fixed on a kid in the street, young and all by himself. He lived on the east side, clearly; his hair was long and greased, and his t-shirt and jeans were torn and dirty. He was about a year younger than me, but he had a strong body. I could tell the kid was freaked, even if he did have a tough look on his face. He was pretty good looking, and I had seen him before...I was pretty sure that he went to my school. Poor kid, he looked so helpless and alone that I was about to go out and help him.

I looked over at the 'Socs,' sizing them up. I was pretty sure I knew all of them, but one of their backs was completely turned to me. I swore under my breath as I saw the one closest to the kid. Marco's older brother, Tom. I had always hated that guy, and I felt my long fingers curling into a fist. Drunk and stupid, all of them. Even that innocent looking east sider wouldn't have a problem hating them...

"Hey grease!" one of them called in a voice a bit too friendly for anyone's liking. I cringed. Alex, the shortstop on the baseball team. He had always smoked too much tobacco. Oh, am I just gonna beat his head in...

"We're gonna do you a favor, greaser," Tom began, his mouth curved into a triumphant smirk. "We're gonna cut all that long greasy hair off."

I felt a fire blaze in my eyes as I prepared to straighten my legs. They weren't gonna do this...they weren't going to get way with this...

I was almost fully up and revealed when Tom reached into his back pocket and pulled out an object I knew by sight: A switch-knife.


	2. The Fight

Damn.

Ugh, why did I forget my knife again? Oh, wait a second, I know why. Because I forget _everything_.

All I could do was watch helplessly as Tom and his gang advance on the kid. "Need a haircut, greaser?" he asked with a dangerous, one-sided grin. I grabbed a hunk of dirt and felt my nails grinding into my hand. Hoho, was I ever gonna beat him when he dropped that blade…

I was a bit far away to tell, but I could just imagine the kid's eyes widening. I just barely heard him respond "No," and then begin to back away. Sadly, five against one wasn't going to be easy for a fourteen-year old greaser (Well, he looked about fourteen, I don't know). He ran right into that jerk Alex, who pinned down his arms while another pair whose names I didn't know, pinned down his legs. It was Tom who sat down on his chest, and I felt an overdose of anger coming on. They were swinging at his face and I could almost feel the sharp pain as they grabbed his arms again, trying to pin him down.

Even in the intensity of the moment, I couldn't help but be impressed. Tom's gang was having a problem getting him down, and for a small kid who couldn't be that far into fourteen, that was impressive. Suddenly his face looked a bit familiar...hadn't I seen him at a track meet before? Yeah, I have, Chloe's friend is on that team, she usually has me go with her to cheer him on.

Once again, I was snapped back into reality when I heard the swish of that blade. I cringed. Why did Tom have to carry that damn thing _everywhere _he went, why?

The blade was being held to the kid's throat, and I heard something about a haircut again. The Socs were all crowding around him, but I caught a glimpse of the blade at the kids throat.

Oh, that's it. I had reached my limit. No way were they gonna kill that boy, no way. You just can't hurt a kid too badly just because of his side of a town. My cut sleeves flew in the wind as once again, I prepared to stand.

Believe it or not, I would have actually gone in there if I didn't hear a strong roar from down the street. I quickly hid myself, and felt my big eyes widen (again. Ugh, why is Tulsa so full of eye-openers?).

Six boys, all greasers, were charging at the Socs, looks of anger on all of their faces. Whoah. They were tough, all of them, that was pretty obvious. They each wore their hair long (except for one of them, a huge muscle man) and it almost looked like they could take on anything.

I watched them in admiration as they began to swing punches and kicks at the Socs, and golly, were they good. Muscle Man was particularily good, but when Tom, who was still by the kid, it looked like this one golden haired one could give Muscles a run for his money.

I looked over all of them, and I knew three. The good looking blonde and the lean, curly haired one; they both worked at the DX. One of them I was thankful I didn't know, a towheaded guy with icy blue eyes that seemed to have hatred in them, so much hatred that he looked like he just needed to get it out on something, so he was slamming everything that came in his way.

The third one I knew deffinitely stood out to me; a dark kid who looked about my age, or the age of the greaser Tom had threatened. He had cuts and bruises all over his face and he looked pretty darn tough, maybe even like a hoodlum. But I had seen his face up close once. I had dropped one of my books at school (not very unusual, I'm a clutz and always dropping everything in my hands) and knelt to pick it up, when that greaser bent down and got it before me. For a second I had thought that he was about to run off with it to tease me, but then I got a good look in his eyes. They were huge and dark, and when he said "here you go," and handed it back to me, I could see his hand shaking and his voice was nervous. Yeah, he's from a bad neighborhood, and yeah, he's probably done alot of things he shouldn't have done, but just seeing those eyes-even for a split second because he had shifted his gaze quickly-told me that this kid had been through alot, so much that he was softened. I had decided that I liked him back then, and now, seeing him fight it out in this battle, I liked him even more.

I snapped to reality again and shifted my gaze to Tom, who was getting beat bad by that Golden Boy (God, was he good looking!). I tried my hardest not to watch Ice Eyes (I know, I come up with nicknames for people I've never even met, sue me why don't ya?) as he crushed whichever kid he was fighting.That guy was just too...mean. I shuddered and realized that the fight was ending. The Socs had enough, and were now attempting to dash away to Tom's Corvair. Two of the greasers, Golden Boy and Muscle Man, hurried over to the kid, who looked like he was bleeding at the head. I suddenly realized how much he and Goldie looked alike; maybe they were brothers.

The rest of the greasers were driving the Socs back to the car, even hurling a few stones at them. I grinned triumphantly, knowing that they had won.

I almost was about to go down and congratulate them for such a good fight, but as I felt my stripped sleeves blow against the my arm from the wind, I remembered who I was. I was from the West Side, a damned Soc. Oh, I know I don't dress like one, but I also know that most kids in this town have some sort of sixth sense about who lives where. Even _I_ have it, but I'm trying my best to get rid of it.

So instead, I decided to go and celebrate with a drink. Normally I go to one of the places on the west side, which for me is safer, but the Dingo was closest here. Knowing they wouldn't see me, I stood up and headed out.


	3. Flat Out Confused

I was thinking about the kid as I walked along the streets of the east side.

That kid, the one Tom had jumped, he just seemed so, innocent. Okay, maybe I think too much about things like this, forgetting the outside world, and everyone knew it. My mom's always told me that it could get me into trouble someday.

I knew it would, but not big trouble, not anything I couldn't handle. I don't know why, I'm just like that. My dad says that all of the Whitney's (that's my last name, by the way, my dad's side of the family) are. And when I think about it, it does make sense.

My sister Chloe, my dad, and me, we've all got those talents. Chloe can just look at someone, anyone, and she can read they're minds. My dad can always see a person's past; he can tell how much someone had been through, or why they are the way they are. And me, well, I can "see the future." I've got a sense of what to do and what not to do, because I know what will get me in a pickle (I'm a baseball fan, what can I say?). I can also look at someone (well, usually kids because they've got more to come) and just know where they're headed. Like that greaser being cornered today, I sorta knew something about his fate. I knew one thing; this division of the town would make a tragedy out of his life, and soon.

I suddenly remembered what side of the streets I was on. I quickly looked up and noticed that it was getting dark.

It was a miracle I hadn't been jumped. People were still staring at me like I had three eyes and a nose in my mouth, which wasn't surprising. No girl I had ever seen dressed like I did, and plus there was that sixth sense of the sides. They all knew I wasn't their kind, but still, no one came near me. Hm. Maybe it was too dark for them to tell.

I had reached my destination; the Dingo. I knew I was nuts for coming down here; this place was the roughest hangout in Tulsa. But I wanted a drink, and I was going to get one.

I walked through the doors, feeling like a cowboy entering an old west saloon. You know, when a new cowboy comes to town and is so different that he's not always welcome. There had been a fight going on a little farther down, and I was even thinking about going to watch until I remembered that I was in the Dingo...and saw the knives. No, I'm not _scared _of knives...just the damage they can do to you. Other than that, I'm not scared of anything, and I mean that.

I thought the heads on the street had turned...as I walked down clear aisle there were jaws dropping and eyes popping out. I ignored them, I did it every day. People were just unoriginal idiots, afraid of a little individuality. Finally I reached the bar, and took one of the stools. (Author's Note: I don't have a copy of the book with me right now, and I'm not exactly sure if the Dingo is a bar or not. Just thought it'd be interesting if it was, sorry if I'm wrong!)

I knocked on the bar, and saw the man inside slowly turn around, a dull and tired look on his face.

"Yes?" he said, attempting to be polite. It didn't work very well, as his tone was still so...lackluster. But as his lazy eyes finally got a good look at me, he jumped awake. I hid a grin. I loved making exhausted people remember that they're on this planet.

I grabbed a menu and skimmed it quickly, handing him my order. He seemed to remember his job, because he stopped starring at my slitted sleeves and put his polite face back on, but I could tell he was still dazed.

He brought me my shot of alcol (my nickname for any kind of alcohol). I drank it slowly, savouring the taste.

Chloe's always hated me drinking, but I never got drunk, and besides, I couldn't resist. You read about most people drinking when they're high on stress, but not me. I drink whenever I'm feeling best. I was feeling great because of that win the greasers had, and I always drank after something like that because it just makes me feel on top of the clouds. No need to have stress cut in on that drink, it's just perfect without it.

I had just finished my shot when I heard some commotion behind me. I ignored it and went on back to thinking, but I nearly cringed when I heard a voice far behind me, a voice I had heard before.

"Hey, out-soc!" he called. Damnit. Tim Shepard.

Tim Shepard was known 'round all of Tulsa as the king of the eastside. He, like so many others, called me 'rebel and 'out-soc' for a living. This was a _ real _hood. He went around fighting and fisting and bragging and jumping. He and his gang had always made me sick.

He and some others (I wasn't looking at them but I could hear them) were far behind me, but they were coming up quick. I had the temptation to swing around and land one on Tim's jaw. But I knew better. The Shepard gang usually carried blades, and unlike those greasers I saw today, these kids used them.

Instead, I quickly knocked on the bar with my fist. "Bar tender!" I called quietly, a demanding edge in my voice. Whenever I was dealing with adults, particularily bar tenders, that voice worked miracles. The man turned around, stunned again.

"Hand me a knife," I stared directly into his eyes, and I could see the fear in them. Whenever I use that tone and glare, I could make a tiger scared.

He wanted to refuse, but he was still unsure. But when I nodded my head to the side, indicating Shepard's gang, he understood. From his pocket, he pulled out a blade. It wasn't much, in fact it couldn't have been more than a slightly large fruit knife, but it was nice and clean, and deffinitely sharp. It always helps to have a shiny blade, because it looks more dangerous that way.

I nodded approvingly and gave the man one of my special smiles. I only caught a glimpse of his flushing cheeks (people just seem to like that smile) before Tim came right behind me, all of his flunkies snickering and laughing at me.

I hid the knife in my pocket before I turned around. When I did, I stared right into those dark, hoodlum eyes of Tim Shepard, king of the East.

Unlike any other jerk in his gang, Shepard was street and almost cool, with that curled black hair and long scar by his cheekbone. I've always thought of him as good looking, but hell with that. Any thug like that who prowled the streets like a panther looking for kids to shove just wasn't someone I was interested in. He was looking at me with that sneer of a smile, but I could tell he wasn't drunk.

Even if he wasn't, the rest of his gang was. All of them were swaggering and looking at me with stupid, far away eyes. I hated them. Every last one of them. Stupid, cruel, uneducated .

"So, out-soc," Tim began, that smirk of a smile and those words making me want to strangle something (most likely his neck). "Taking a visit down to our neck of the woods, eh? What's the matter, they don't let broads drink on your side?"

His cronies laughed at this, and I swear, if I didn't hate Tim so much, I would have snapped them like twigs too.

I gave them a sneer, one of my worst. "Actually," I said, my voice dripping with hate. "The broads drink too much on our side, so I came down here, hoping to find some sanity. Guess I found the opposite."

They laughed at this, but my attention was drawn to a laugh that didn't seem so cruel. For the first time I glanced behind Tim and saw a kid about my age, probably Tim's brother. I didn't know why his laugh and face seemed different, they just did.

His face seemed kinder, just a bit kinder. The difference was so slight I could hardly see it, but it was there. I glanced into this kid's future and I was surprised to see a hoodlum, just like his brother. Maybe he was being forced into it, he was already pretty bad now.

I turned my gold-eyed glare back to Tim, who was starting to look at me in a way that reminded me I was a girl. Oh great. Maybe he is drunk after all.

"You know, for a rebel you've got some good looks on ya, girl," he said, sliding up close to me. I recoiled in disgust as he fingered my shirt. Okay, I've made up my mind. I hate this guy more than I hate being called a Soc.

He was leaning his face in when I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled out my fist and swung at his face harder than I've ever swung at anything before. My hand landed on his eye, and he stumbled back and almost yelled, falling to the floor, a hand on his eye.

I grinned triumphantly at him. I glanced up at his gang, whose mouths were hanging open. I quickly pulled out my knife and held it in front of me, ready to defy any of them.

I started to call out a threat, but suddenly I looked at his brother. He was staring at Tim, hurt on his face. Then worry. I don't know what happened, but I almost felt..._sorry _for Tim Shepard. I looked at him on the floor, but this time, I saw him so much differently. He just looked...broken. Defeated. Useless. As if in one punch, I had taken everything from him...like I had taken the one thing he had; his reputation...another glance at the brother and I knew I would be sick.

Wait, what am I thinking? He's going to be physically fine...he'll just have a black eyes, no biggie...

But the brother turned his eyes to me, and I felt just horrible. What's happening to me? Why am I feeling sorry for this hoodlum, this idiot who had made fun of me for so long...

Suddenly I heard a little voice in my head. It wasn't really there, but I heard it. I had heard it before, whenever I did something wrong, but this time... it just sounded so different. For once, I wanted to obey that voice, but I didn't understand it.

_'He has a story too, you know...' _

I don't know why I did it, but I just lowered my knife. It just didn't feel right to have it up anymore.

I tossed it back on the bar, and ignoring the shouts of anger from the Shepard gang I slowly walked out of the door, just feeling dazed and confused.

* * *

Well, there's another chapter. I don't own the Outsiders, and thank you so much to the people who reviewed. And Tim's going to be okay, Valere's just having some realizations come to her. Thanks for reading! (I apologize for any spelling, grammar, or any mistakes, I wrote this pretty late.) 


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